To Learn the Science of Deduction: A Crime in Cobalt
by Theivius Authorius
Summary: Think Sir Galleth was the only Cooper of England? Think again! Meet Sylvester 'Sherlock' Cooper, and Benjamin Watson; England's best crime SOLVING team! Can this duo stop a world-renowned thief's attempts for glory? Or is there more than meets the eye to this mystery? WARNING: Occasional reference to Smoking and Gambling, as it was done in the SH books(limited references).
1. A Break-in of Beige

**Chapter One: A Break In of Beige**

**19th Century, London, England. 221-B Baker Street.**

"Watson, you shall never understand the science of my craft if your mind is forever locked into one frame of understanding. You must be open to all, and every, possible and impossible possibility of every situation if you are expecting to succeed in the endeavors that you so heartily have decided to join me in exploring."

My flat-mate prefered to hear his own mouth rattle on than others, I had come to realize. But I didn't mind so much of his shortcomings at this point on our partnership. I had just asked the man if he was so inclined to have me as his pupil, teaching me in the ways of deduction... now that I look back on that moment, I am not completely sure if I had asked in true inquisitiveness or sarcasm, as I could easily remember that he had near to no ability to understand the differences between the two.

"Do you realize that not even half of your arguments even make half sense to me, Cooper? Not to show the weakness of my education, but please summarize, for sanity's sake!"

He spoke nonchalantly, "Benjamin, you are a Doctor. Yes, one of Medical experience instead one of philosophical knowledge, but even so, you understand that I must use such a dialect to my superiors. Why else do you believe I have been speaking in such a manner?"

I rolled my eyes at his cynicism, "My first deduction was that you were trying to drive me mad."

He grinned at me, "And that is your first lesson in the sciences of deduction, friend. You have only known me for a small window of time, and yet you tell when I jest. Good! Jolly good..."

You may already by questioning the fact of Sherlock's many names that I have addressed him by; even I must admit, I am still not so sure of his true name. I knew that his crest was of the Coopers, an ancient bloodline dating back from the ages of Egypt's hierarchy. I also knew that the name that he was most used to was Sylvester, or 'Sly' as friends and acquaintances (of which, sadly he had few) had come to call him. I even knew that he was a direct descendant of England's own member of the Cooper Clan, a Sir Galleth Cooper, whom started a ring of knights and squires to banish the tyranny of his time. He jested on occasion of his childhood desire to start the Knights again, but even he regarded it as a childhood fantasy built on bricks of air.

Even with my desire to be in the know of deductive sciences, I was quite a skeptic. "Sly, I have questioned you time and time again for an example of your prowess in the field, and the only one you have given me is of our first meeting."

He spoke without looking from his violin, "And that was not enough to curb your inquisition? Ah... Very well then. What is your bidding? I shall deduce whatever you wish, from whomever you wish."

I rose from my seat with a smile, grabbed the stick I had fashioned for a cane, and hobbled over to the window looking over Baker Street. I had peered out into the crowds of passers, of children and of old men, of the cabs and of those infernal horseless carriages, when I found a perfect target for my friend to give insight for. I heard him walk up beside me, and told him to cast his gave to a young man crossing the street, possibly 200 yards from the flat. All I could deduce from him was that he was in his mid twenties, possibly thirties. It was high time to see what my friend could do.

"Well, for one thing, this man is of the navy. You can tell from the Anchor Tattoo that has just shown itself from under his shoulder. Another is that he was wounded in battle, buckshot to the right shoulder-blade, and a questionable impact from something in his eye. Possibly from a fist fight he had at the Bakers Pub last night, when he had... yes, a Whiskey and seltzer, of which a shard is still caught in his jacket, which could mean that he is still feeling the effects of his night." He glanced down at him one last time, and went back to his lounging.

"Ha!" I exclaimed to my companion. "Yes, you hold information of the man, but how can you expect to prove this?"

He smiled at me. "Why, because he is coming here, of course!"

Before I could object, of which I was prepared to, a knock came at the door. I had a puzzled look on my face, but Sylvester yelled for the person at the door to come up. I turned to shock, as the man who came through was the very one on the street!

"Yes, is this were I find a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes?" The man had a gruff voice, and he had been right; the man had been drinking whiskey as of late.

Sly chuckled. "That is one of the names used to call me, but yes. I am he. You're here to ask Dr. Watson and my aid in the burglary of your home, and of the prized artifact stolen there, correct Lieutenant?"

If I had been considered shocked when my friend told me of this man's information, then he was numb with surprise. "How did you... have we met beforehand?"

He looked at him sternly, "No, and I don't mean to be short, but we have little time; not nearly enough as to explain to you why I knew such facts. Now!" He swooped up to the rafters of out loft from a library ladder, took a golden-tipped cane from behind a support beam, and sprinted to the rack to grab his coat and had. Both myself and the navy man were gawking at my friend, in which he just tapped his foot impatiently. "Well? We have a burglary to solve, friends! Come!" As the man followed him, he shouted to me. "Watson, are you privy to join us? You just might be quite useful in the investigation of this pilfering."

I was both intrigued and confused at the same time, but I snatched my coat from the rack, and limped lightly down the stairs. We passed out landlady, Mrs. Hudson, on our descent. "Mrs. Hudson, at Five O' Clock, prepare a kettle of tea for us. Have yourself a cup, if you desire, or if we are too late to join you."

Just as we were walking out the door, the young cat turned to us. "I'm not your maid, Sherlock, and you're not in the position to treat me as-" Sherlock slammed the door before she could finish.

* * *

We had made our way to the man's home rather quickly, I was surprised why we hadn't taken a stroll there instead. The place did not look so burglarized from the outside, no window was open or broken, the door had remained in tact, everything was in order as I could see it. As I told Sly of my observations, he made a sound of agreement. "Yes, but we should never jump to conclusions before our observations, now should we?"

But, in fact, the inner of the home looked no worse for the wear. The miniscule amount of furniture of the apartment had been left untouched, it seemed, as had the bookshelves and tables of the apartment. To be truthful, I was doubting if he had pulled a ruse on the two of us."

Sly was just walking around, mumbling to himself, as he inspected certain details of the home. As he peered to the floor, I noticed scuff marks leading both to and from the doorway, and around the archway into the dining room, ending at a small nook of the room.

"Well, why would a trail leave off here? It looks like nothing of importance lays here, or ever did."

He looked at me with grim eyes. "Do not look, Watson, _see_. Man," he turned to the nameless sea explorer, "Could you please lift the veil over the secret panel in this wall? And of the artifact that was actually stolen?"

He seemed to be used to the surprise now, as his eyes had only widened, then receded back to their original size. He pulled a chain from his jacket pocket, on the end of which was a key. Then he slid a section of the wall, revealing a small panel and keyhole. As he turned the key, the panel twisted open, revealing a bronze stand without its occupant.

"Hmm. Guess this means I have more to respect of your talents, 'Sherlock'."

He grimaced. He absolutely hated that name, yet it seemed to have been the only one that had stuck with him. "What was originally in this, sir?"

"A copy of plans to Britain's secret weapon against the Dutch. I was the only man entrusted to have the last copy of the plans, being part of the engineers to create the device originally. Realize that I can not truly discuss to you the facts of the plans. Even with the war at a close, if one slips the information to any government, even those fools in America, the balance of power could shift to terrible results."

Sly turned from the panel, and stepped around the home. In a matter of seconds, he had stepped into the lounge of the flat, and set himself in the wooden rocking chair placed inside it.

"Sir, why aren't you... you know, investigating my case? You understand that time is of the essence, of course. You even said so just as we left your home!"

He spoke with his eyes closed. "Yes, I did, didn't I? Well, I may be resting because I know who has done this!"

We looked at him expectantly, but he just rocked in the chair peacefully. Eventually, one eye flicked open, to see us glaring at him. He sighed, and put his arms behind his head. "Watson, if you would, look in the back right corner of the pannel. You will find a small shard of some light blue substance."

I did as I was told, and sure enough a shard of blue was in the corner.

"That is a clip of nail, which tells us that it was a woman. Can you tell me any plausible reason why, or how, this chip of nail could possibly be in this area?"

Silence.

He sighed. "Because it was _meant _to be dropped. Gentleman, I know exactly whom we seek to find this missing document, though why she would steal such an unimportant document is far from me."

The navy man scoffed at Sly, "Unimportant? The plans to build that device are so world-changing that it could spell victory, even world domination, for anyone who's hands it have into contact with. Tell to me that doesn't sound like the littlest of importance."

Now was Sherlock's turn to scoff at him. "I apologize; I meant to question why she would involve herself with military information. If I'm right, and I'm always right, the wonam we seek has only one other time stolen a piece of importance to the military, and she personally told me that wasn't to her liking, endangering so many people with such a theft. Her name is Irene Fox. But that is of no importance to you, as we are the ones who shall be investigating." He muttered under his breath to the man, "And believe me, if you have involved yourself with her, then you should let us handle her. Trust me."

"Come along Watson!" he called to me as he walked briskly out the door. I tipped my hat to the man, and sped after my companion. Unknown to me, this would be the begining of something much greater. Bigger than I could have possibly imagined.

**Thoughts? If you can, review about what you liked, didn't like, etc. Should I continue this? Where should the story go from here? Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed reading!**


	2. An Investigation in England

**First of all, a BIG thank-you to Ramona Bandicoot for helping me out when I was truly stumped on how to continue this :) ****Anyway: as always, put down a review if you've got something to say about this chapter!**

**Chapter Two: An Investigation in England**

The raccoon puffed at his pipe, either furious for whatever reason he chose, or in deep thought of the burglary case presented to us. Or both. Or neither, now that I take a moment to think about it. His moods are rarely discernible by facial expressions. "Sylvester, take a moment to relax, man." I called out to him from my seat in my recliner. He didn't respond, still puffing away.

I got up, and walked hesitantly to my friend. "...Sylvester?" I said hesitantly. The puffs still rose up to the ceiling in little rings. I slumped my shoulders, and frowned.

"SLY!" I said with a bark. That got him out of his trance, his pipe flew from his mouth and clattered onto the floor. I could see that he was about to have an outburst, but he calmed himself before he could. Drumming his hands on the arms of his green chair, and his two index fingers to the bridge of his nose, he said drolly, "Your species would have given me the idea that you were attentive, Watson, to most things; especially when a man is trying to concentrate. Most Bloodhounds were, I made the assumption. Serves me right to do such, assume." He got up with a grunt, bent to pick up his pipe, and walked to the mantle ledge to refill the spilled tobacco.

I couldn't see if that was his true feeling on the matter, or if he was being sarcastic. I shrugged off the possible insult, and went back to my reading with a flick of the papers. This article in the Daily News had told of this doctor in the lower district of London, Joseph Bell, that had been influential in dozens of local homicides and attacks. I believe I had met him once, in a trip that my past colleague Dr. George Turnavine Budd had coerced me to take with him. It was a mistake, I will say that, but it is for another time, that story.

I heard him fiddle with the assorted kinds of tobacco laid out on the mantle, muttering to himself of the potency of this one, and the brain stimulation that one gave to those who took another beforehand. I sighed, and put down the papers. "Holmes, why are you so attached to this case?"

He stopped fiddling. Turning his head to me, "You have not met her, friend. If you had..." the raccoon sighed. "Then you might understand."

"Oh, Holmes... we could take a visit to Scotland Yard. Maybe meet with that man, Gregson, or whatever his name may be. He might be able to clear the fog in your head." He only sighed sadly to my gesture of assistance.

I genuinely felt sorry for the man. As said before, he rarely showed any emotion. I asked him if he would be able to enlighten me of this woman, if only to curb my own inquisitive nature; someone to have the abilities to turn the stone-faced Sylvester Cooper to what seemed to be near tears must be of a special breed.

He sighed deeper. "Do you really want to know? Absolutely, positively want me to recount it to you?"

Though I had regard for my friend's feelings, I didn't care if they were damaged at this point. I nodded, expecting him to spill out the information.

"Fine."

He started to walk out into an archway, popping out a few seconds later with a small picture frame in his palm. He set it on a table beside us, and sat down again, without the pipe. This must be serious, I thought to myself.

"That," he pointed to the woman in the picture, "is The Woman. Irene 'Swift-Tailed' Fox. Before you ask, when people come to apprehend her, all they see is her tail brushing up against the edge of a building, or out through an opened window, with her making her escape. She is un-catchable. A shadow, nearly, but thrice as beautiful and cunning. The only time someone has ever seen her face is if she _wishes _for such to happen. I have been..." He pondered for a bit. I could tell that he was flustered, he didn't speak in his normal manner. It worried me, slightly. "... Lucky. Yes, luck, we'll call it that. I've been lucky to see her on occasion. Her reputation for theft has nearly..." he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

"What was that?"

He waved it off as nothing. "Anyway, she is quick. She is stealthy. On more than one occasion has she baffled me to near-madness, pulling the rug from under me when I thought I had her in my grasps. Literally, in certain cases, but nevermind that." He got up to stare outside the window, into the dimming light of the street.

He exhaled, setting his paws on the windowsill ledge. "I have been on her trail for over twelve years, you know. Since my first partnership with Scotland Yard. Even beforehand, to tell truths." I could sense in the words that he was hiding a small fact from me. I took a wild stab at it.

"You were in love."

His ears pricked up, and he turned back to me. "Maybe I should not have tought you any of deductive science. Yes. For quite some time, I will admit."

He climbed up two steps on the book ladder, and slid to a shelf a few meters away. He pulled a tome, looking dustier than the rest of them, and hopped down with it. I saw the crest of his family barely emblazoned on it; a golden cane, with the face of a raccoon behind it. "She was once a historian, you know. In fact, she was the one who had told me of my family's grand past." he waved the book in the air, "She gave this to me on the day that we met. She told me of Sir Galleth, of Slytenkahmen, of all the rest of them. But she made sure that I wanted more of the tale, leaving out certain parts of the story, making sure I found it out for myself."

He laughed lightly. "We were a beautiful pair, she and I. Doing the grandest of things, seeing the most beautiful of places... She made the true arts, such as Chemistry, History, Criminology, artistic works... she made those my first love. And she was my second."

I stared at the woman in the picture again. She was beautiful, there was no doubting fact. Her light, brown hair flowed from her head, like a beautiful waterfall. Her figure was astonishing, and the white gown that she wore enhanced that beauty. Her eyes were difficult to inspect, but I could tell that they were as blue and clear as the morning sky. I could see why he admired her on an intelectual level as well; her eyes radiated intellect, just as Sherlock's had when he inspected things of his craft. I saw him standing heside her, his arm around her shoulder, smiling. They both seemed content, in their smiles. One of the few, if the only time, I had seen him truely, utterly in bliss.

He sighed heavily. He flipped the small painting down on it's face, his own turning dissapointed. Looking out again, I saw him close his eyes, as if trying to put back a bad memory. "And then... she was gone."

**As a heads up, I might add more to this chapter specifically (to tie up some loose ends) later, or I might just have a shorter third chapter. Either way, I hoped you liked this!**


	3. The Inspector

**The science of deduction... What would you call that? Deductionology? Deductivity? Deduct-ography?**

**Anyway, our two detectives are hot on the trail of Miss Fox! And, to Sherlock's dismay, they have to enlist the help of a... disgruntled... ally. As usual, please give this a review if you like it! Especially if you have a recommendation, or a suggestion for me. **

**Chapter Three: The Inspector **

Once Sylvester had gotten rid of the picture frame, we set off on the road. Yet again, as usual, our Landlady had tried to get Holmes to stop, this time for the rent that we had owed two weeks prior; and as usual, he promptly slammed the door in her face before she could get a word in edgewise. I shall sound shallow when I say this, but with the lack of paying cases as-of-late, I'm quite relieved that we avoid her when she prys. As is the fifty pounds that I keep on reserve under my mattress, which the kitten would have happily snatched up as a down-payment of out rent.

We hadn't gotten meters from our door when he came up to us, haggard and confused. Near immediately, I recognized it as our old chum, a term I use loosely, Inspector Gregson. The bear gasped to us, "Where have you been? I've been trying to phone you for hours!"

I looked at him in confusion, "We have no phone, Tobias."

It looked like he was trying to say something but his breath couldn't catch up to him. He rested his arms behind his head to try to fill his lungs again. "What?! You..." He gawked at Sylvester, "You told me you had a phone! I spent at least two hours, waiting for the lines to be open!"

I looked at my companion, who was trying to stifle his laughter. He gave me a smirk, that made me know that there was something he hadn't told me about. He answered my suspicions when he said, in laughter, "I... I will tell you about that later. But, my friend, why in the first place did you not just come to the flat?"

He looked angry at Sylvester and I, "I was otherwise occupied, you jokers. Oh, never you mind. At least I have enough time now. Hail a cab, dog; we have a case."

I snarled lowly at him as he turned to the street. 'Dog' was an annoying name that the inspector had given me, he had thought of such a name for me for no other reason than to cause me angst. I had no true idea of why he wanted to make grief for me; apparently, he was a cat person. He was always kind to Mrs. Hudson, when the two of them met.

Sylvester patted me on the shoulder, with a sympathetic frown. In any case, I hailed the cabby, and we all walked inside.

He filled us in quickly on what he had wanted us to take part in; I will not put down all of what he had told us, for, after about every five syllables, he uttered a curse more vile than the last. I shall try to translate it in a more civilized manner.

_At around five-O'-clock, a man's home was broken into. Very similarly to how the Navy man's apartment was entered; leaving no trace of exit, or entrance. The building, in fact, was built in nearly the same style as the previous abode. And in a similar fashion, a valuable piece had been stolen from a nook in the corner of a wall; a near facsimile of the home we had visited a half a day before. Besides, of course, the dead body of the man smack dab in the front of the door. Gregson said that a Bobby had been patrolling the grounds around the street, when he heard the drunken singing of the neighborhood fool. _

_He bumped into the policeman, who could tell the man was heavily intoxicated by his breath. The policeman said he didn't recognize the man, which was natural; he had just been appointed to this neighborhood of London. He still had a bottle in his hand, of cheep liquor by the look and smell of it (the drunkard, not the policeman. Though he did admit to having a nip of wine a few hours before). The Bobby had led him out not fifteen meters past bumping into him, when he heard a loud shriek pierce the calm air. He left the man to his own movements, and sped off quickly to the focal point of the scream. _

"He just left the drunk there?!"

He spoke like he was talking to a child, "Of course. The threat to the people is always a greater part of the duty than the leading of misguided souls."

Sylvester and I rolled our eyes. We'd heard this speech many times before, almost like it was required to be taught to all novice policemen. He laughed, disregarding my friend's outburst, and continued his narrative.

_After a time of searching, he whistled for more Police to come to his aid, knocking on and sometimes breaking the doors of homes on the street when they finally found the man, dead as sawdust, sprawled out on his stomach with his head towards the door. The men investigated further into the home, finding the information said before; no exit, no entrance, nothing. There was no blood, or scar, or any sort of gash on the body at all. Not even a bump on his head. The only thing that was perculiar was the man's eyes, poised in a gaze of shock and fear. Otherwise, he could have easily been mistaken to be alive._

"Poison," We said at the same time. It was obvious, with what the grizzly bear had told us. "Elegant way for a person to be killed. Personal, if it came to that. The killer knew him."

Yet again my friend surprised me with his criminal knowledge. But I combatted against his wit with my own medical intuition. "Has there been any evidence of possible poisons?"

He shook his head. "None. Aside from... no, nothing else."

Sherlock glared at him, knowing that he ws hiding a valuable piece of information behind that smirk the inspector had on his face. I put my hand to my chin, trying to avoid the topic. "Fascinating... There're a number of untraceable poisons in the world, few of them available in England without ties. Very important ties.

We tried to question him further, but he stayed mute. It seemed that we would have to find out more when we arrived, a piece of information that I could easily see (as could Gregson) was tearing at Sylvester's insides. If there was anything you could do to get at his nerves, it was to leave him out of the loop. I'm the same way, when it comes to egotistical bigots who get all of the fame and glory from our work.

But I digress.


	4. The Body

**Chapter Four: The Body**

Sylvester paused for a great while, kneeling beside the body. In his silence, his gloved fingers danced on the body, inspecting for missed tidbits of information. Twice I had to restrain Tobias's fury for 'Tampering with a body', and twice he assaulted my dignity with his insults. But eventually, he gave up his fight for dominance, and stayed as far away as possible from Sylvester as he inspected the body.

"Like my friend and I said; Poison." he placed his index and middle finger close together, right beside the man's lip. I leaned in close to inspect the dead man's mouth, and found that the area around it was still damp. Quickly, I came to the conclusion that Sherlock had come to. "Ooh!" He startled the Inspector in his quick movement upwards, making the bear nearly lose his black metal hat. "This is rare! Rare indeed..."

The bear furrowed his brow. "Spit it out, would you?"

Sherlock laughed to himself. "I'm sure our friend wishes that you would have told him that beforehand!" I rolled my eyes, and he continued his monologue. "This is a very rare poison. And, just as Benjamin has proclaimed, it is extremely valuable; only those with grand ties could possibly get a millilitre of this substance. Of course, that's all you'd need to murder this poor fellow, and two of his colleagues."

"Three men?!"

He wiped an imaginary substance off of his gloves, and proceeded to take them off and toss them in a waste basket. "Sad. Those were my favorite pair..." he struck a match against the heel of his boot, and flung it inside the basket, proceeding to throw the entire receptacle out the open door.

"Cooper!"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Three men. It's a very complicated mixture of four chemical substances, Chloride, Potassium, Nitrate, and..." He looked hesitantly at the Inspector, "...and something else. This all must be blended with the stomach acid of a creature on the island of Madagascar; the Ruby-throated Dart Frog. Very rare species, and the deadliest reptilian on the planet."

"Extraordinary..."

"And very easy to detect, if you have the correct tools. Which you, and all of Scotland Yard don't. Obviously."

I smirked as the Inspector fumed. But he kep his temper tempered. "Please. Continue."

"What time did you say this man died?"

"The Bobby said half-past Five."

"And he knows this by a... a scream, you say?"

"Yes."

He glanced back toward myself. "Are you positive that it was the deceased who shouted?"

Tobias turned his head sideways. "Well who else would be screaming at half-past Five? Obviously it was him, Cooper."

Uh-Oh. At that time, I truly wished that the bear hadn't said that. Obviously was a word that my friend hated more than most anything, especially when it came from a police officer. But he kept himself right, only his ear twitched with annoyance as he continued.

"Is there any... _true... _evidence, that enforces that it was him, besides the man who heard the scream?"

The Inspector sighed impatiently. "No. Nothing."

"Then don't assume anything. It could very well have been this poor soul's killer, in an attempt to throw the idiot at guard off guard." He started pacing quickly, stepping over the body.

_"At Guard off guard?" _he whispered into my ear. I shrugged.

"His Suit is in pristine condition; I haven't seen such cleanliness except in pictures. This man cared for himself very greatly. Every picture is spread out evenly, at a completely straight 180 Degree angle, every piece of furniture is set out at such an angle that, if someone were to sit in each chair, no spot on this floor could be missed by a wandering eye. And..." He bounded up the stairs loudly, and we heard him rushing around. He shouted down to us, "And the entire home is laid out in this manner!"

"Yes, yes, he was a freak. What of it?"

Sylvester slid down the small banister with grace, and landed on his boots quietly. "On the contrary, friend. He was an Obsessive-conpulsive. Not a single thing in his home could be offset, else his entire lifestyle would come crashing down on him like cinderblocks." He picked up a blue vase on the oak table between two chairs, and turned it over. "Shame. A reproduction."

The bear nearly exploded, almost slamming one of the officers working the crime in the forehead with his massive forearm. "Yes, FINE. But what in bloody hell does it have to do with this sap's death?!"

Putting down the vase, my companion sighed and shook his head. He pointed with his right hand behind the inspector, "Look at the hooks on the wall beside you, if you would be so patient with me."

Scowling, he glared at the four bronze hooks that jutted out from a wooden base secured on the wallpaper. "So?"

"There are brown and black coats on them, correct?"

"Yes..."

"Now look below them, in the container for Umbrellas... what do you call that, Watson?"

"An Umbrella Stand, Sylvester."

He perked up. "Really? I thought it was something more complex than that. Huh." He stood pondering that quietly for a few seconds. "Nevermind. How many of the totes can you see, Inspector?"

He pointed to each of them as he counted, and mouthed the number. "Three."

Sherlock clapped sarcastically, "Good, Gregson! And how many coats?"

"...Three. So?"

We both looked at Tobias with condescending glares. I knew that he was thick, but not concrete-thick. I put my fingers to my temples, and sighed. "Even I know this, Inspector. Think."

The dim look on his face stayed there for what seemed like a minute. Then the old fool finally woke up what called a brain, and he shook his head as he walked off into the dead man's bedroom, passing some of the policemen on the job. "How you ever became such a rank on the force, Tobias, is an unfathomable fact for me. And that, my friend, is saying a great deal."

"Oh, I almost forgot; what was that piece of information that you 'forgot' to tell us?"

The Inspector growled. "Well, since I am such an unfathomable specimen, I don't believe I can tell you. Maybe afterwards."

Our eyes rolled again.

* * *

After a few more harsh words flew between us, we proceeded to investigate the rest of the home. But as the idiotic inspector (a name which I will go out of my way to call Tobias at every opportunity given to me) had said, the entire home was clean. Only the Stolen object, and the decaying specimen by the front door was out-of-place anywhere. The more I saw around the place, the more I was disappointed and appalled of the home's previous occupant. Furniture, garbs, hats, his bedroom, even the salt and pepper shakers on his perfectly dining table! And the floor! Not a single bit of dust could be seen anywhere. Even though I knew the effects of the disorder, as a distant friend of mine was diagnosed with it before my expedition to the war, it shocked me to see it again.

Instinctively, my leg started to act up again, feeling like the entire appendage was one large bruise. My friend turned back to me when I lacked behind, as we were walking up the stairs to the attic of the abode, and looked at me with sympathy. Climbing back down, he put a hand on my shoulder. "Gregson!" He shouted above to the Bear, "I'm afraid we must take our leave presently. If any other facts are found, or you decide to say something worthwhile... just call!" He hurried me along as I heard the idiot fuming, "Fly, you fool, unless you wish to be Grizzly Chow!"

* * *

We had been inside that building for much longer than I had previously thought, as the sun was just dipping down past the row of buildings to the west. It was already... already very late in the day, as I had forgotten to take my timepiece along with me. We had gone quickly to the flat; we had made it a sort of game between the two of us. Whomever made their way to the flat first paid the brunt of the month's rent, and today was the day to pay rent. Because of my pain currently, Sylvester had given me a ten second head start...

"Well my friend," He said, "It seems you'll have to dip into that secret fund of yours!"

...which I wished had been doubled.

"Ah well. I'll ask her if we could pay tomorrow." I yawned loudly, suddenly feeling exhausted from the run. "Well, I should be getting to bed. Good Night, Sylvester!" I called as I shut the door of my bedroom. I heard his muffled voice as he closed his door, saying the same.

I sighed heavily. Nearly crashing onto the bed, I didn't even feel like changing from my clothing to go to sleep. And I would have fallen asleep quite quickly, if not for a particular gleam in the closet that caught my eye; The gleam of an eye. A bright blue eye, I believe.

Quietly, as not to arouse suspicion, I put my arm behind my pillow to prop my cranium up. I gripped the revolver that I kept below the pillow in case of emergencies, which this situation might very well have been, and created a sound of a snore in the pit of my throat.

After a short while, I heard the scraping of the door opening slowly. The carpeted floor hid most of the intruder's footsteps, but I heard the quiet plodding of his feet. I shifted my hand again, adjusting my grip on the pistol. When I saw the growing lack of light as the intruder moved past the window, I made my move. I sat up straight, and pointed the metal device straight at the shadowy figure's torso. I smirked when I saw the white eyes open wide with surprise. "If you don't want to have to order a coffin, I'd start explaining. Quickly."

The person sighed. And when she spoke, I almost dropped my gun. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

This intruder was a woman! Getting a better look in the moonlight as my eyes adjusted, her figure made it clear. She put her hands on her hips, awaiting me to question her.

"... Who are you?"

The eyes furrowed in a confident glare, and the long furry tail behind her swished with delight. She was grinning, from a slight gleam I saw at her mouth. "Yes, yes... what to call me? I've been called many names, you know..." She started to promenade around the room, as if in thought. "The Shadow, The Queen Runner, Quick-Foot Carmelita..." She giggled lightly, "Such a ridiculous name, Carmelita. Anyway... Yes..." She was at the foot of my bed, which because of the angle, I could not see her face. "But people only called me that because they never got a good look at me. But you, Benjamin Watson..." She pulled out a small box from her jacket pocket, a matchbox I believe, and struck it to illuminate her face. "May call me..._Rache. _Or Irene, whichever you fancy."

**There was a bit more comedy in this chapter than what I expected to write, but I don't think it turned out too badly. What'll come of this mysterious meeting between these two? All will be told... maybe... in time...**


	5. MIdnight Madamoiselle

I was speechless, to put it kindly. To believe that the very woman my colleague was searching for 12 years to apprehend was in my bedroom, only thirty paces from his own room, was ironic. And more than a little uncomfortable. I tried to find some words to express my feelings currently, but it wasn't simple to do. Finally I forced a phrase out, "Do you always perform such dramatic entrances, Irene?"

She smiled lightly. "Occasionally. It's more fun than you can possibly imagine, believe me."

* * *

"You know, Benjamin," said the fox, "people are a curious sort."

For a long while, we stayed silent, till she spoke again. With those words, I nodded in agreement. My grip on the gun loosened, but it didn't escape my hand.

"If you'll allow it, I might ramble on a while." I shifted in my bed, weapon still aimed for her, and awaited for the fox to continue.

"We're made victim to our own emotions, many times. Greed, apprehension, fear, anxiety... many act too rashly on those impulses. I, as well as you I'm sure, are a part of the many." She walked back, near the closet where she hid, and pulled a chair to sit on. She faced me, but the chair was backwards, so she could place her paws on the back. Her blue painted nails clicked on the frame as she drummed her fingers. "Our psychology is flawed, Doctor. As is our ability to make up for our mistakes, many of which are made because of those rash impulses. Some can be forgiven... others can not. And the blame can be, occasionally, laid onto both sides of an argument. Occasionally, even the sanest of people, the most rational of them, are caught making those rash impulses... Such impulses that can change a person's entire outlook on life, even their own profession. Do you follow me?"

"More than you know, Miss Fox."

"Good. Then, for both your sake and mine, I would ask we both put our firearms away. No need to risk a possible bullet between two sane people... correct?"

My eyes darted to the pistol in my hands. I then looked at her, seeing that she herself had a firearm. For a brief moment, we locked eyes to find the other's thoughts. She knew I could pull the trigger easily, and I knew she could easily whip out her own weapon and fire at me... I realized she was right. She reached for her gun, which I reacted to with a firmer grip on the trigger.

She put up her hands defensively, "Just putting it away, Watson. Just putting it away." She grabbed it by the edge of the handle, careful her finger would not go near the trigger, and set it on the floor. She then pushed it with her toe, making it slide under the bed.

But I didn't lower my hand. Her eyes widened for a second, showing mock, but well rehearsed, surprise. When I didn't flinch from her innocent act, she smiled indifferently, cocking her head sideways. From her back pocket, she pulled out another pistol, in the same manner as the first, and slid it under the bed. "You're no fun at all, you know that right?"

"But at least I'm alive," I said as I bent sideways to slide the pistol under the bed with the other two.

Finally, it seemed, the both of us relaxed enough to be civil to one another. "I'll admit it, going to the friend of an ex-love, during the middle of the night... more suspicious than I thought possible, for 'The Woman'."

"Is that what Ringtail calls me now? The Woman?"

I stifled a bit of laughter. "_Ringtail_?"

Irene's shoulders slumped immediately. "You don't call him that?"

I didn't hold back a laugh this time, "I certainly do. Now."

She shut her eyes, cursing herself for letting her tongue slip.

"Irene, what are you doing here?"

Quickly, she perked up. Almost like a switch was flung, she looked determined again. "Right. Almost forgot what I came here for." She dug into her pocket, quickly pulling out a small bank-note. She leaned over, placing it in my paw.

"What is this for?"

"10,000 odd pounds."

I reacted so much, I almost fell out of my bed. "_10,000?!" _I gasped.

"Give or take, yes."

I breathed heavily, thinking I'd slipped down the rabbit hole. That would certainly be an easier explanation than what I had currently to explain today's occurences. "What...why..."

She giggled lightly, but acted as though she had a heavy heart. "Calm down, Ben. It's a down-payment. I wish to hire you."

I regained a wisp of breath, and was about to say something, when I realized what she said. "Come again?" I said with an arched eyebrow.

"I wish to hire you! For a case. My case, in fact." She said her last sentence timidly, as a child would ask for a favor.

I paused for a moment, both to regain my breath and to summarize what she was saying. "So you were at that man's home. And the murdered one's apartment."

"I didn't kill that man, Doctor," she interrupted. "I'm a thief, not a murderer."

"Miss Fox, I believe you. But, not to be too harsh, but judging by the amount of firepower you bring with you, you're more than able to do so. That's Means. And that man had something you wanted. That's motive."

"But where's the opportunity? Look at that note once again, if you would."

I did. I gaped still at the amount, but forced myself to look away momentarily. The stamp, showing its time and date, were plain as day; they gave her an alibi. I noticed an abnormality, though. "Your name here says 'Carmelita Fox'. I thought you said it was a ridiculous name."

She smiled again. "Doesn't mean it isn't useful, on occasion."

I was still slightly stupefied by the paper in my hands. By the case tonight. In fact, _everything _that had transpired tonight seemed to be so out of the ordinary, even when involving Sylvester. "Irene, I... I really don't understand any of this. Why wouldn't you just go to Scotl-"

_"Benjamin?" _

I looked up, seeing the door start to open. In walked the land lady, Miss Hudson. "Benjamin, I've told you; keep up as late as this, and I don't get sleep. You don't want to see me without some hint of a night's rest, Benjamin." She scared me with her harsh tone. You might find it comical, but that kitten has quite possibly the worst tolerance for loudness that I've ever seen.

"Good night," She said with a quick shut of the door. I sighed, content and turned back to Irene's chair... to see she had disappeared. My eyes moved to the opened window, opened wider than previously. Jumping out of bed, I peeked my head outside to see a near-silent street. Only the occasional pass of a cabbie gave the street any sign of life at all. She was gone.

Again.

I sighed again, very confused and tired. If I had known that this was what the role of a Consultant Detective's assistant entailed, I would have rethought the decision. My thought was interrupted, however, when I saw a oddity. On her chair, there was a small slip of paper, written with blue ink. I held it to the light, to aid my attempt to read it.

_That 10,000 note is a gift. Take it, if you want. Give it to Scotland Yard, if you want. It could redeem my name. People think I killed them, Watson... and I think Sylvester might as well. What I need is for you, and Sherlock if you can, to prove me innocent of the murders. Do that, and I'll be forever in your debt. -**IF**_

There was a second side to the note, which I flipped to read.

_Post-Script: DO NOT tell Sylvester we met. You and I both know that it would damage him even more if he were to know. When this is all over, tell him. I'll send another message, for him and I to meet then. Don't fail me, Watson. _

**Thievius Note:: After much too long of a wait, it's SUMMER! :D And, with that, I'll be able to put some more attention toward the stories I'm working on. SO if one you've been wanting to keep reading hasn't been touched for a while, it should be updated in the near future. **


	6. Chemically Inclined

It had been many long days before I had fully grasped the gravity of what had happened that night. And many longer weeks before I had even thought of cashing in the sum of money given unto me.

I regretted the idiotic questions I asked that day, and the important ones I never uttered.

I had been given the money by a banker, whom was just as (possibly more so) flabbergasted as I was that , with his talent for noticing the minute monstrosities of mortal nature, Sylvester had already become more than curious of my mannerisms. Thankfully, with a little of my own astute observation, I'd been able to conceal my true traits and thoughts enough for him not to know something was amiss.

That is, until he broke it to me that I have worse acting ability than Gregson had detection skills.

* * *

"What? No, of course I'm not hiding anything! Why on earth _would_ I be?"

He, with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, responded. "Ben, I'm no idiot. As of late, your head's either been in the clouds, or not even attached to your neck!"

I scoffed, trying to keep in-character. "I'm shocked, Sherlock, that you even can think I"m hiding secrets. Shocked, I tell you!" Immediately I cursed myself for over-acting. But I hid that thought from his faux mind-reading abilities. "And wouldn't my head not be on my neck, if it was in the clouds in the first place?"

The sideways look on his face wasn't a pleased one. "That's besides the point. It doesn't matter; what matters, my secretive friend, is that I'm glad you didn't become an actor."

"Show me one shred of proof, Raccoon. One shred!"

"Alight then!" He said with a sigh, pushing up from his red chair. "For one, you always end your sentences with a repetition of your first mutterings. And for _two_, It's very simple to see the change in your funds. Which, if I'm correct, and I'm always correct, has increased exponentially."

"I kept telling you; never doubt my gambling abilities. Lady Luck was looking in my direction!"

My ruse, of course, didn't work. "Benjamin, you have no luck. Nobody does! It is unthinkable to believe that our world is ruled by chance. And, if it was, then your share of the pot would be less than the vilest Black Cats in existence."

I blinked. "Your trust in me is _extremely _comforting, thank you."

"Sorry to interrupt you two and your discussions..."

We both jumped, and turned out heads to the shouting on the city street. It was none other than the embodiment of idiocy himself, Tobias Gregson!

"...but I need to speak with you! Both of you!"

Sylvester glanced at me with thin eyes, as I looked down at the bear. He tapped his claws upon the cobblestone pathway, impatiently. I got off of my seat and plodded down the stairs to let the bear into our abode... begrudgingly, yes, but he came in nonetheless.

I knew why he had come here; the mysterious death, and burglary, at the apartment of the compulsive man. The very same crimes that Irene had come to me to aid her in solving... I felt guilty for not addressing as much concern as I probably should have to her case. But sneaking around Sly's eye is much more difficult than people would believe.

"What do you want, Tobias? As you can see, we're busy-"

"Busy bickering? Yes, I can see that clearly. But, I'd ask you to put your petty squabbles aside, and listen to me."

Sylvester shifted in his seat. "Have you finally gotten off of your high-horse and decided to enlighten us about that 'little tip' you left out a couple months ago?"

Tobias gave a sideways glare to the raccoon. "Be wise, Cooper. Anyway... Yes, I have some information."

...We awaited him to continue with his monologue, but he merely clasped his hands behind his back, and rocked on his heels slightly. It was simple for us to understand what he was doing.

"... You can't be serious, Inspector."

"Serious about what? I merely have information. And it would be quite beneficial to you, I believe."

I'll be honest in saying I was surprised by the bear. Yes, claiming our own discoveries as his own was one thing. But trying to get a profit out of us? Shameful. With a sharp glare, Sylvester walked over to his desk. The Idiot Inspector's eyes followed him, mildly interested in why he was moving. As was I.

Filled with the doodads and mechanical creations of his intricate mind, my friend's desk, which I coined 'The Bottomless Catch-All', was organized. If not commonly, then in his own snatched up a small device, resembling a miniature phonograph in some ways, and tossed it up into the air for himself to catch. Sylvester pointed it at the bear nonchalantly, "Do you know what this is?"

"No..." He said curiously. "Your key to world domination, perhaps?"

"Ha! Ha, your very funny, Tobias. No, that's on the roof. But anyway. This little doodad, which I've called 'The Recorder', does exactly what it sounds like it does; records. But, unlike conventional phonographic recorders, it operates on a small, cylindrical glass disk instead of a record. And it records _everything_. Including your little extortion attempt there. So, please. Be a lamb and be square with us."

The look of sheer terror on Tobias's face was priceless! His cheeks blushed to a shade of red I never even knew existed!

"Fine." He finally said. He had gained back some perspective, and dipped into his breast pocket. He fished out a small, plain tin case; one could say it resembled a snuff case. Empty, I could see, when he shook it around. "This was found in the brambles of the apartment's foliage. I'm surprised we had even found the acursed thing."

Sylvester went into detail mode instantly. He snatched the thing form Gregson's paws, ripped off the lid, and started to investigate its previous contents. "Did you open it prior?"

"No."

"Thank you for finally doing something correctly, Inspector." Sly said, ignoring the bear's growling. The raccoon wafted his fingers to the tin, like a chemist to a vile of chemicals. After moments of wafting the unseen aroma, I'd moved a little closer to the tin just before Sly brought it to his Chemistry Station; I detected no odor, but I noticed slight wear spots in the metal, in circular shapes.

"What you're not detecting," Said my friend as he dumped whatever contents had been left in the container into a beaker, "Is a powdered form of the Dart Frog's poison. Not like I need to explain this to you, Watson," He said, shifting gaze to Gregson, "but the poison was turned into a capsule, which was ground. And, either, the killer did a fantastic job of sweeping up shards from a fallen drinking glass, he was very close to the deceased when he died. Yes, I know that's 'obvious'," the raccoon said without turning from his table, "Gregson, but I must tie up loose ends. I'm using the granules left-over from the capsules that were once inside to try and detect their origin, before you ask."

Gregson's eyebrow rose. "How will you manage to do that?"

Sly rolled his eyes, "I can't quite explain it to you right now, Gregson. I'll be brief, though; some of the particles that could have been in the killer's environment, when he or she was crafting the pills, could have made their way into the case. If I can find them, I may be able to find where they were made, which will get this case solved quickly. Isn't that what you want?"

Ignoring the Inspector's chance to make a rebuttal, Sly continued. "You know, I must admit; this case reminds me of a previous one. Very much, in fact, if you look away from the fact of theft. But I doubt they could be in any way related. If you wanted, you could ask Lestrade about it one time, if you two don't try to kill each other in the process."

His eyes followed the granules swirl in the vial, and rocket up into a glass coil. Pushed by a clear liquid, it spun and spiraled into a filtered pipe, with two ends, and divided. One end led to liquid. Another, solid particles. Lo and behold, my friend was correct.

"Aha!" he shouted, proving my statement. "Sediment. Fine, yet coarse enough to get pulled through the filter... Sand. And a fresh-water solution... the Thames."

Gregson scoffed. "What, he was killed at the beach?"

"Nice try, Gregson, but no. There would have been sand on the body itself if that was true."

Let it be know that, on occasions, Sarcasm passes through one of my friends ears and out the other.

"But it _does _tell me where the fiend lies... Gentlemen? We're going to the Docks!"

* * *

_...Okay, let me tell you a story. Picture this: It's late June. I'm working on a TON of stuff, like a one-shot that never really saw the light of day (you should be glad about that, trust me), a chapter for To Be a Thievius Raccoonus, and other assorted gobblety goop. I'm working on it, doing great... and get side-tracked. I forget about it.  
_

_Okay, now fast forward a couple of weeks. I've got it finished, I like it, everything's going great again. Then, somehow, by the mysterious wonders of Internet Connection, I lose everything on it. Now fast-forward a couple _more_ weeks, and you've got a near-finished chapter... that just sat there. And, of course, I forgot about it again. I'll be honest, I was almost done with this chapter for about... I dunno, 3, 4 weeks now? And I didn't even know about it until about, what, six hours ago? Yup. Funny, huh? *Face-desk.*  
_

_Bear in mind, this chapter's got parts from weeks ago, and now, so if it feels a little mismatched, I apologize. But I hope you enjoyed it! And yet again, so sorry for the long wait. If you notice anything that's got to be fixed, please, tell me. Till next time!  
_


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